


Familiar Touch

by neverminetohold



Series: Familiarity [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/pseuds/neverminetohold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet moment of unconditional trust in the med bay, when one mech is down...</p>
<p>Excerpt:</p>
<p>A warm point settled suddenly on his plating; ghosting; drawing his thoughts away from that dark longing. Four, six, then ten points – fingertips – touched his faceplate now, setting a cuttingly clear contrast, sharp, to everything else in his jumbled processor.</p>
<p>Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to HASBRO</p>
            </blockquote>





	Familiar Touch

 

"Slag it!" Ratchet cursed viciously.

More swear words followed, slipping from his vocalizer in an easy, never-ending stream while he worked frantically.

Glancing now and then up, to view the monitors, he cauterized wires and clamped tubing shut; rerouting systems and the flow of liquids.

The sharp tang of energon filled the med bay, drifting like a fine mist in the air around the downed frame. The bright blue fluid dripped from ruptured cables, trickled from seams in heavy armor plating. Busted wires threw sparks; smoking; mixing with the stench of fried circuitry.

The barely conscious mech, blue and red-flamed paintjob charred almost beyond recognition, jerked on the berth. He tried in vain to avoid the prodding servos, in no state of processor to understand that Ratchet only meant to _help_.

"Optimus, hold st- "

A servo flailed around, aiming sluggishly for the sound of Ratchet's vocalizer; glancing his faceplate, with no more strength than a sparklings. He stopped the astrosecond it took to catch the limb and strapped it again to the berth; restraining Optimus.

Wheeljack hurried over from the storage room with clanking footsteps, servos full with the necessary medical supplies and machines. Once there he instantly started the process of hooking Optimus' vital systems up to life support.

Shrill warnings were set off immediately; one look had Ratchet cursing even more colorfully.

"I need him to retract that fragging battlemask! We've got no time to work our way through his plating to reach his tank! Primus in the pit – how I _hate_ that shell design!"

BREAK

Prowl slipped into the med bay with stealthy silence, rigidly graceful in a way the SIC alone could manage. Only his doorwings would have given away his mood, had he allowed them to droop, that is. They felt... illogically heavy.

Catching their CMO's rant he came closer, leaving the waiting, injured mechs behind him as the doors drifted shut.

The price to be paid to free their Prime from Decepticon captivity and subsequent torture had been... _high_.

Although Prowls battle computer and logic center worked frantically to come to a conclusion, to analyze what went wrong, - he managed to reduce the constant stream of code and data to a background hum in his processor, not allowing himself to dwell on it.

This outcome... a possibility of 0.7 percent should have been...

No; _later_.

His white servos flexed minutely, but Prowl willed them to not clench into tight fists. He had to help; now. Regardless of possible repercussion or his preferences...

"I can offer a solution to the current problem, Ratchet." Prowl was both proud and mildly disturbed that even the gruesome sight of Op- their suffering Prime left his monotone, inflectionless voice unaffected.

Ratchet and Wheeljack didn't acknowledge his presence. They worked alternately to stabilize Optimus for the necessary operation and tried – in vain – to destroy the lock in the battlemask's mechanism.

Avoiding puddles of drying energon as well as the CMO's servo, which only grabbed thin air instead of shoving Prowl out of the way, he stepped around the berth to come to a stop at Optimus helm.

BREAK

Pain seared along every circuit, setting his whole frame aflame.

His screen was flooded with warnings, endless symbols, drowning out his surroundings.

He could not remember what had happened to him. Or where he was. – Even the vague sense of _who_ he was eluded him.

All that was left was the dim, tired knowledge that he had to fight; the reason swallowed up in nothingness.

The feeling of wrongness and agony was all the focus point left, a small dot his awareness shrunk to...

Something ripped viciously at the last barrier left to him – his battlemask.

It was almost impossible to simply move, but he resisted with resigned desperation; futile, but he _must_.

He felt sickly gratified as his servo actually connects with his tormentor. But the attack, the _touch_ , is too feeble and soon his whole frame is tied, trapped, restrained, - and no longer by pain or weakness, but by straps.

Sounds wavered around him like hollow vibrations in the darkness, words and Cybertronian voices, perhaps – but he can not _hear_ and he feels as if he is balancing, precariously, perched on the edge of an abyss.

And, maybe, at its bottom, peace can be found...

A warm point settled suddenly on his plating; ghosting; drawing his thoughts away from that dark longing. Four, six, then ten points – fingertips – touched his faceplate now, setting a cuttingly clear contrast, sharp, to everything else in his jumbled processor.

They slid down, slowly, tracing the smooth edges and lines of the metal of his mask in an intimately familiar pattern. It equals comfort, the sharing of a burden, hidden from curious optics; sometimes too heavy to be borne alone.

One digit found with expert precision the hidden, microscopic indention, tapping the spot; soft, yet insistent, more urgent than playful. Coaxing him, like so often before, asking him to retract the last barrier between them.

It says 'don't hide behind your mask'.

He _knows_.

Feels – and remembers.

But...

Who...?

...

...

... _Prowl_. - He complies without a second thought.

BREAK

Ratchet and Wheeljack did never acknowledge what they witnessed that day. Aside from patient/doctor confidentiality, they were too keenly aware of the need of their Prime for... support, symmetry, a confidant. _Privacy_.

They had just shared a look, because several odd puzzle pieces fell now into place. As far as they were concerned, everything was as it should be.

End


End file.
